Intruder
by Chinese Bakery
Summary: His son is more responsible than he is! And he has his own place. Why isn’t he sleeping on his couch? LincolnSara, MichaelSara
1. Chapter 1

He'd been peacefully reading the newspaper in bed for an hour, enjoying the quiet of a Sunday morning, when Sara entered the bedroom and slammed the door behind her. She looked flushed and downright pissed off. So much, in fact, that he knew what her aggravation was about before she even opened her mouth.

"We need to talk about your brother."

"Sara, I already told you, it's a temporary thing…"

"It's been three months, Michael!"

"I know, but…"

"Three months," she continued, ignoring his protests, "of having an overgrown teenager living on _my_ couch, making my life a really messy kind of hell!"

"Sara…"

"His son is more responsible than he is! _And_ he has his own place. Why isn't he sleeping on his couch?"

"LJ and Diane just moved in together. He doesn't want his father around to scrutinize their new domesticity, surely you can understand…"

"What about _our_ domesticity? Look, I know how close you two are, and I like Lincoln, really, I do. But he never cleans up after himself; he keeps coming home in the middle of the night making a hell of a racket; we have to tiptoe around the living room since he won't bother to get up before noon… This isn't a frat house! This is my apartment and I liked it better without the weeks old pizza boxes hidden under the couch or the empty beer bottles abandoned in the sink!"

"Please don't shout, he's going to hear you."

"Oh, Heaven forbid we disturb Lincoln's breakfast, it's only one in the afternoon!"

"I know it's been hard on you, Sara. I'll talk to him, okay? I'll ask him to make an effort. It's difficult for him, readjusting to normal life. Give him time. For me. Please? "

He gave her his best conciliatory stare for a full minute before she finally gave in and sat next to him on the bed, shaking her head. He moved to accommodate her and, when he was confident she wouldn't push him away, started massaging her tensed shoulder, soothing her raw nerves.

Sara leaned against him, enjoying his ministrations. With Lincoln around, they had come to cherish every minute of intimacy they managed to steal. Sara hadn't been exaggerating the situation in the slightest. He was well aware that his brother had been acting like a spoiled brat, taking advantage of his patience and Sara's good manners.

When Michael started kissing his way down her neck and his hands ventured lower, to the waistband of her pants, she brushed him off.

"Uh, uh. Your brother is right next door."

She was pushing him away again. With Lincoln's habit to interrupt at the very worst moment, it had been a while since they'd had an occasion to be together, and it was starting to get on his nerves. And Sara was a lot less accommodating than he was.

Defeated, he announced, "Fine, I'll talk to him right now."

When he closed the door behind him, she mumbled to herself, "Yeah, I knew that would get my point across."

---------------------

She liked Lincoln, really, she did. But ever since the incident, it was just that she couldn't look at him without blushing and he'd been enjoying her discomfort a little too much for her liking. The unfortunate event had taken place the previous day, a date she would probably curse for the rest of her life. Michael was reading in bed as usual, and she had assumed Lincoln was still sleeping, like he usually did in the late morning. Sara was getting ready to enjoy a sweet, long, warm bath with bubbles and lavender-scented salts, planning to lay in the tub until she turned into a particularly wrinkled prune. It was her weekend ritual, a way to prove to herself, week after week, that Paul Kellerman hadn't spoiled the simple pleasures of life for her.

But when she stepped in the bathroom that morning, she was immediately confronted with the vision of her wet and naked soon-to-be brother in law, who apparently didn't bother shutting the curtain, nor minded inundating the bathroom's floor.

Petrified and blushing like a schoolgirl, she could only stand there, staring at the very masculine, not entirely unattractive body of Lincoln Burrows enjoying his morning shower and conscientiously rubbing _her_ bar of soap over his chest.

He was a really attractive man, especially in the nude. She never had giver much thought about how Lincoln looked like naked, his buttoned down shirt were revealing enough, as she never missed an occasion to tell him. She had never thought she would one day be facing that much of Lincoln, but now she was, she couldn't look away. He was breathtaking. The very image of masculinity, strength and virility. A man-shaped well of testosterone.

She was watching, transfixed, a single drop running from his muscular shoulder all the way down to his buttock, when he slowly turned to face her completely, a large grin on his face.

"Enjoying the view?"

She huffed and cursed, before rushing out of the room, thoroughly embarrassed. She grabbed her bag, told Michael she needed to grab some fresh hair, and went to wander the streets, trying to make some sense out of the turmoil that was raging in her head.

---------------------

A couple of days later and despite her best effort, she found herself alone in the flat with Lincoln. She was off duty from the hospital for the day, Michael was out to meet his parole officer and Linc was uncharacteristically up and, to her relief, fully dressed.

"Sara, we need to talk about the bathroom," he announced, cornering her in the living room.

"No we don't," she replied sharply, praying that he would let her off the hook that easily.

"Oh yeah, we do. You spied on me in the shower and now you're all weird."

"I'm not weird!" she shouted, indignant.

"What, then?"

"I'm… mortified! And I didn't spy on you, for God's sake. The bathroom door has a lock, learn to use it! Also, one word for you: curtains!"

"And another for you: knock. Why are you yelling at me? I'm the one who should be pissed!"

"I don't have time for this," she spat, wanting nothing but to get away from him. She tried to leave the room but he was blocking the door and when she tried to push him out of her way, he grabbed her arm.

"You're not leaving until we've settled this."

"There's nothing to settle. Let go of me."

She tried to wrestle his arm off her but he was way too strong and instead of letting her go, he only pulled her closer and closer still. Seconds later, before she knew how it happened, she was pressed flush against him and time stopped.

Her first thought was that he felt way too good. She was overpowered by his warmth, his strong, solid form against her. She sensed something shift in her, a burning heat that started down her throat and kept growing, moving down, settling in her stomach and radiating lower. She was turned on. She was pressed against Michael's brother, his toned chest moving rapidly against her breasts with each breath, and she was undeniably aroused. It was completely, infinitely wrong. Yet, she couldn't muster the strength to move away,

And what was worse, she could feel that his body was starting to react, too.

"Lincoln…"

Before she could say another word, he was kissing her. Hard. His tongue was frantically searching hers, playing, rolling, tantalizing her until the heat became so much her knees were melting.

She grabbed his strong shoulder to regain her balance, feeling the subtle play of muscles under her fingers, dying to touch his warm flesh and let him absorb her completely as his arms closed around her. A second later, his hand moved under her shirt and found her breast while the other one went to unhook her bra, never breaking the kiss, and she wasn't sure anymore how she had lived that long without knowing a man could feel oh so good, dangerous, forbidden and powerful at the same time.

He was pulling her top up to taste her skin when they heard a key turn in the lock and she jumped away instantly, panicked and breathless. She made a run for the kitchen to rearrange her bra and regain some composure before she could face Michael. She wasn't sure she would ever be able to.

---------------------

That evening, Lincoln went out without saying when he'd be back, and Michael and Sara finally had some time to reconnect. Unfortunately, that night of all nights, Sara would have given anything to not be left alone with her fiancé. She felt ashamed, guilty and awkward, stupefied still of what she had done.

When Michael kissed her sweetly and whispered in her ear that they were finally alone, that he had been dying for days to lock himself with her in a bedroom, she looked at him sadly and said she had a terrible headache and needed to call it a night. She felt his disappointment run through her like a train hitting her at full speed, but she couldn't make love with him after what happened just hours earlier, not when she could still feel Lincoln's rough hands on her stomach, drawing a pattern of sin and lust on her skin.

She went to bed and turned out the light, ignoring Michael's incredulous face, and turned to her side. That night, they fell asleep back to back for the first time since she had finally come to terms with the way he had manipulated her while in Fox River.

In the early morning, when she awoke to the sounds of Lincoln drunkenly making his way to the couch, hitting every piece of furniture on his way, she caught herself wishing she could go and lie next to him, to see if he could wake up that unfamiliar ache in her again.

She had never felt that bad in her life, and that was saying something.


	2. Chapter 2

For the third time that week, after Michael had left to run some errands, Sara found refuge in the building's laundry room, thankful to find it deserted this early in the evening. Ever since the kiss, she felt uncomfortable whenever strangers were around. Irrational as it was, she was afraid people could tell how terrible a person she was just by looking at her face. She certainly could see it when she faced a mirror.

She was busy sorting out swimming suits, beach towels and other items that were completely useless this early in the year when Lincoln's low voice resonated behind her.

"You can't avoid me forever, you know."

"What are you doing here? I thought rooms without windows made you feel sick."

"I can manage," he shrugged.

"Right, that's why you refuse to use the elevator."

"It's you're third laundry this week, if you're trying to be sneaky, you're not doing a very good job at it."

"Ever heard of a spring cleaning? No, of course you haven't."

"He thinks you're pissed at him."

"Well," she breathed as the familiar ball of anxiety and guilt worked its way to her stomach, "I'm pissed at myself."

"Yeah," he sighed. "Look, we need to work this thing out."

"Sure, it turned out so well the last time you suggested we settle something."

"Hey, you can't put the blame on me. You didn't push me away. In fact…"

"Shut up! Why I didn't kick you hard enough to calm you down indefinitely, I still have no idea," she replied. And it was the truth; she just couldn't figure it out. It was her worst lapse in judgment since her overdose, years ago. Something entirely stupid and wrong and yet she hadn't been able to stop herself.

"Sara," he said softly before putting his arm on her shoulder in a gesture that meant to be comforting.

"Don't touch me," she snapped, slapping his hand away. "The only way to work this out is for you to move out and to never, ever mention this incident again."

Not that it would help her not to think about it, but at least he wouldn't be around all the time to remind her of her enormous mistake. Which he did, daily. It was the way he looked at her when he thought she wouldn't notice. He stared at her with a mixture of longing and shame, the same way she knew she did when Michael was otherwise occupied. Not that she would ever admit it. After all, it was all his fault.

"If I left without a solid explanation while you're so obviously distraught, Michael would figure something's going on. He's pretty perceptive."

"I'm not distraught, I'm sick of you! Can't you see the mess you've brought in our lives? You're everywhere, you've taken over the flat; you're interfering in our relationship; ruining everything when we've finally managed to settle down and work out our issues. Why you can't do the same, I don't know but it's not my problem, nor his. You're not our roommate! You're just a fucking intruder!"

"Worked our your issues, uh? Newsflash, honey, Michael tells me things."

"Things? What things?"

"That you're so engrossed in your new job you barely notice him when he comes home. You never talk to him and he's worried if he tries to initiate some discussion, you'll snap at him –I wonder why," he added with a derisive smirk. "Oh, also, he's not too happy that you keep pushing him away. You two haven't fucked in weeks."

She took a step back and brought her hand to her flushed face, feeling like he had just slapped her, hard. Sure, he could be making it up from what he had observed of their daily lives, but she knew there was some truth in it.

It had taken her long enough to get her medical licence back, now she was very intent on proving she wasn't the irresponsible lovesick junky the papers had painted her to be. She worked a lot more than she was expected to and at the end of the day, she was so exhausted and fed up she rarely felt very communicative. Besides, Lincoln's constant presence clouded on the rare moments of peace and quiet she could have shared with Michael. She used to tell herself it would sort itself out once she would finally feel accepted at the clinic and Lincoln would move out. She was starting to realise it may not be that simple.

"How dare you," she shouted once she recovered from his biting tirade. She raised her hand to slap him, but he grabbed it and easily stopped her. He pulled on her forearm and suddenly, he was in her space again her breath caught in her throat.

They stood there for a minute, paralyzed and way too close for comfort, before he gave in to the impulse and grabbed the back of her neck to pull her face to his almost violently for a burning, vicious kiss

She tried to conjure the strength to run away from him, to flee the room and never allow him to get close to her again, but her body wasn't obeying her. She leaned into him, grabbing his shoulders, giving in.

"You have no idea how much it turns me on when you yell at me," he murmured and pressed himself against her to let her know how much he meant it. She could feel him, hard and hot against her lower stomach and it was awakening the ache she had been trying so hard to repress.

She couldn't understand it. How could a shouting match with her almost brother-in-law do that to her when with Michael, it was the tenderness and complicity that had taken years to build up that turned her on? It felt too good; it was wrong, maybe it was the combination of both that made it so impossible to resist. The thought that she should be putting up more of a fight crossed her mind and yet she only found herself pressing against him harder.

Then his hands were on her again, searching the soft skin of her breasts beneath her blouse and all thoughts of walking away were lost.

"Someone could show up," she said breathlessly as he started unbuttoning her top.

"I know," he replied as if it didn't matter to him at all. And it didn't, really, nothing did but what his mouth was doing to her breasts while his hands worked their ways inside her jeans, pushing her panties aside to touch her _there_. She moaned loudly, amazed by the delightful jolt of heat his fingers sent coursing through her body. She let her head fall back.

"Oh God, we need to stop!" she groaned before crashing against him again to bite his shoulder not so gently, enjoying his sharp cry of pleasure and pain.

"I know," he replied, stroking her harder.

"Please don't stop," she hissed desperately, grabbing his arm as if to make sure he wouldn't take his hand away.

"I won't," he muttered as he unbuckled his belt and pulled down his jeans and boxers. She grabbed his erect cock tightly and he cried out before pushing her hand away.

"Don't, I can't…"

He let the sentence trail away and lifted her up to sit her on a washing machine. His shaky hands pushed down her pants and he settled between her opened thighs.

When he pushed inside her, she locked her arms around him and buried her head in his neck. With each thrust, the nagging guilt was pushed further away and she was left with only the terrible, agonizing pleasure Lincoln's body was bringing her. There would be ample time to feel like hell afterwards, she knew. She moved in time with him, wanting nothing but to get him closer, further insider her.

He climaxed before she did, grabbing her hips hard enough to leave marks, and when he recovered, his hand went to stroke her again until she cried out against his neck in turn, feeling herself collapse into a million fragments.

She suspected that when the pieces would combine again, they might not be entirely the way they had been before.

He waited until her breathing evened out to step away from her and she let herself slide from the machine and to her feet. When their eyes met, they saw in each other's flushed faces and glazed eyes just how far beyond the line they had gone. Realisation was slowly setting on the two of them, bringing with it its lot of shame and darkness.

"We should, uh, get dressed," he murmured, suddenly a lot more worried to be caught with his pants down and his brother's girl than he had been a few moments earlier.

She nodded and put on her discarded clothes before rearranging her hair. Her hand went to her cheek and it still felt thoroughly flushed. Damn her redhead complexion.

"I think it would be better if you went out tonight," she said softly when she was done, looking away.

"Yeah, I was planning to."

"What are you going to do?"

"Get drunk, I guess," he shrugged as if stating the obvious. That was what he usually did when he had done something stupid.

"I didn't mean about tonight."

"I don't know, Sara. I really don't know."

She didn't, either.


	3. Chapter 3

It happened again, a few days later, when Michael went to visit LJ and Diane and Lincoln had, conveniently, no other plans for that evening. They did not ask, they did not talk, they just tore at each other, biting, touching, letting that powerful and poisonous feeling overpower them again. Like a disease, a new addiction they didn't really want to kick just yet, but that would undoubtedly suck the life out of them in the end. And it hapened again after that. On the couch, on the kitchen floor, in Lincoln's car the time Sara's car broke down and he had to pick her up at the clinic. They were very careful never to approach the bed she shared with Michael every night.

"We can't do that anymore," she said after each time as she put her clothes back after inspecting her body to find out where were the marks he had left on her this time. Bite marks, fingers-shaped bruises. He always managed to brand her that way, no matter how badly she reprimanded him afterwards. He never meant to, but couldn't quieten the glimmer of satisfaction that went with the knowledge that she would have to turn off the light the second she went to bed and push Michael away until the marks had faded. That she could only share a shower with him for the next week, when his brother was away.

Every time she told him they had to stop, he agreed vehemently, knowing they wouldn't be able to stop themselves. They longed for each other, ached for that complete abandon they only found with each other. They never tried to define their relationship. Lincoln never tried to put words on the blinding jealousy he felt when he overheard her moan his brother's name, the same way Sara never tried to understand the fury she felt when he stayed out all night long and came back with that spectacular grin he sported every time they just had sex.

If Michael noticed anything odd, he never said so. On the contrary, he kept rushing her to decide on a wedding date and eventually, they agreed on the first weekend of September, because early autumn was their favourite time of the year. During that summer, Lincoln found a relatively stable job as a construction worker and even though he hated it, much to Michael's surprise, he managed to hold on to it. Several weeks before the wedding date, he moved into his own place.

The day before he left their apartment for good, Lincoln and Sara fucked against the boxes he had stuffed with his things, before promising each other it would never happen again. They both meant it, but neither of them had ever been good at keeping their promises. They had struggled with addictions before and knew only too well that relapse happens.

---------------------

Michael and Sara had been married for just over three months when the pregnancy test finally turned blue. They had been trying since the previous summer, but she couldn't help feeling astonished and a little freaked out. In fact, she couldn't tell apart any of the intricate emotions that flowed through her as she sat on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the little plastic tube, reflecting on the paths that had let to that particular bathroom, with a foetus in her womb and her genius of a husband. A fleeting doubt coursed through her but she quickly pushed it away. Now was not the time to think about her brother-in-law.

She hadn't wanted a baby before Michael. She didn't want to be the kind of parent hers had been and wasn't sure she could succeed where they had failed. She didn't want to take that chance, didn't want to disappoint a child or herself, once more. Besides, she knew she was and always would be an addict. She was only too familiar with the pain and shame that went along with having a parent who struggled and eventually fell. But with him, she thought she would manage. He was everything she was not, reliable, constant, patient. He wanted a child so much she thought he would make it work. He made her a better person. They would make it work together.

When she felt herself breathe evenly again, she rushed out of the bedroom, the test held firmly in her hand, and ran to her husband.

"We're going to have a baby!" she exclaimed, laughing at his dumbfounded expression.

"Are you sure?" he asked with her frown, as a large grin started growing on her face. He held her tightly kissing her hair, his hand searching for her flat stomach, trying to feel something different in her body.

"How do you feel about Fernando, if it's a boy?" he asked playfully as he tickled her side.

"No. No, no, no, no, no. We're not naming my child after one of your prison buddies."

He laughed with her, still caressing her belly, until he looked down and noticed a faded thumb-shaped bruise set high on her hip. He blinked several time and swallowed hard, letting his eyes wander away. And suddenly, he knew he couldn't keep it to himself anymore. Not if that meant a child had to inherit all the secrets and lies.

Her caressed her cheek and raised her face until their eyes met and slowly, deliberately said what he had promised himself to never wonder out loud.

"Sara, I need to know if… The baby. Is it... mine?"

"What?" she half-chuckled, half-choked. "What are you talking about, of course it's yours!"

He looked at her intently, before shaking his head. "Forget I asked."

"No. What did you mean?" she asked as she felt her blood freeze its course in her limbs and her heart beat slower.

He seemed to hesitate for a moment and finally murmured, his voice so low she wasn't sure she'd heard him, "I'm not stupid, Sara. Or blind."

She only stood there, mouth agape and eyes wide open, her stillness only disturbed by the icy thrill that climbed up her spine.

"I know about you and Linc. I've known for a long time," he says softly before walking to the door, not wanting her to look into his eyes and see what he had worked so hard to hide for the past year. "It's okay," he added, "as long as you keep coming back to me, it's okay."

"Wait," she screamed as she run to him and grabbed his arm. "It's not… It's not what you think." And of course it was. It was the most sordid affair, a double betrayal that she couldn't even justify with love or passion. She hated Lincoln nearly as much as she needed him.

Realisation hit her so hard she felt herself waver. He knew and he had kept it to himself, keeping quiet, pretending, day after day. Playing along.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I love you, Sara. I love you both. If that's how it's got to be, to keep the both of you in my life, then that's how it's going to be." He shrugged sadly. "I meant every word I said in that church, Sara. I want to grow old with you, raise our children. No matter what."

Sara took a step back and clutched the wall to keep her balance. She realised something, as she let go of his arm and felt a wave of self-hatred engulf her completely, threatening to drown her along with the regrets and shame she had become so accustomed with during her morphine years. She understood that in the end, Michael Scofield would always be sacrificing himself for Lincoln and for her, because it was the way he loved, the only way he knew.

She wondered idly, as the first tear rolled down her cheek, if he hadn't been the one to figuratively push her in his brother's arms in the first place. If he had seen something growing there before they did.

She wasn't worthy of Michael Scofield's love and neither was Lincoln. The two of them only deserved each other, this addictive, poisonous love, needy, painful, destructive that only vaguely resembled love. No matter how hard she tried, or how bad the wanted Michael to be the one for her and most of all, to be the one for him, there would always be a Lincoln to remind her of who she really was.

And who she really was, wasn't someone she could be proud of. She felt the dream come and go as she let the piece of plastic fall to the ground. Her marriage was a joke. The perfect husband, their newly bought fancy house, the vision of a normal suburban life with children running everywhere, it was all lies, a façade that kept shaking and was now crumbling apart, revealing what was hidden beneath the shiny varnish.

She wasn't at peace and she never would be. She was not the thoughtful wife she tried so hard to be, she was an addict with a taste for everything that could destroy her. Michael was not a knight in shiny armour but a tattooed ex-con marked for life, in more ways that one, unable to be loved the way he should, the way she couldn't. She had never been all that good at pretending. How she could ever have let him convince her to conceive a child in the mess they were in, she would never know.

Besides, she wasn't even sure the baby was her husband's, after all.

"I don't know if I can keep coming back, Michael," she said before biting her lips to smother a sob. "And I don't think you should want me to. It's not right"

He knew it was the truth, of course. But deep down, he couldn't help feeling that when you can't have what's right, you need to settle for what is close enough.


End file.
